Jim's Bloghttp://jameslegare.com
Texas Travel and Leisure Site -Enjoy the Travel Writing!Fri, 22 Feb 2019 04:33:05 +0000en-UShourly1https://wordpress.org/?v=4.9.9*** Chapter 7: Revelations ***http://jameslegare.com/revelations/
Thu, 20 Dec 2018 03:55:23 +0000http://jameslegare.com/?p=1134And some months after that recital with the Dr and his mother, Marcus’ hands of flesh, so pliant when over the keys of the piano, those hands which have never touched Angel, he thought to himself with no little irony, were now held against this woman’s bosom. She was clad in gold, as she was seated there with studied poise. They both shared the settee, alone, somewhat removed from the party guests, in his mother’s home, in the one quiet corner away from the moiling action. The guests, in their formal attire, tended to remain loosely gathered around the stately black piano, with its lid open, which Marcus had played earlier, to their acclamation. The piano’s shadow grew longer as the afternoon progressed. And the darkness made its steady progress.

The golden light of the sun competed, even now, in its brilliance with the color of her dress, of this woman, who stole away from the crowd to talk to this man, Marcus, after the excitement of the performance had died down. She, in a posture of comforting, alongside Marcus, was also capable of complicity as could be seen in her face now. One could see the expressions change without hearing the words, and guess at their meaning, say, even from the vantage of where the guests generally stood, across the room, and with all this noise.

She, this woman with Marcus, would be the governor’s wife. And this is how they both had met for the first time, finally, despite the efforts of his mother.

Marcus could not avoid the cruel thought that had his father’s ambitions been more fruitful, his mother would have been this self-same woman in her thirties sitting beside him now. That his mother’s political ambitions had been hindered by his father, that he would hatch business ideas for the Bio-Tech corporation without follow-through, was a conclusion he found unavoidable now. His father’s manner was bumbling, as Marcus remembered him. He would have been more of an asset to her without the dreamy, blue sky mentality, the impractical endless quest that were more scientific curiosities than business propositions.

Without money, there are no Politicos. Were it not for that, the steady failings, there would have been beauty and power; both to be possessed at once, for his mother. -thought Marcus. But…

And, as it turns out, her name was Monika, this slender Slovakian woman with blue eyes of bliss that inspired confidence, and confidentiality, tainted with bitter cunning, when necessary. The bronze hair worn upright was a few shades removed from the color of amber.

The expanse of sun-ridden hardwood floors, resounded with the noise of the guests. The living room was more like an out-sized atrium, vast white walls and windows, with skylight, an echo, the cracking of another champagne cork, errant laughter belonging to a woman, somewhere, high-pitched, slightly durnk. There was moiling around the art hanging on the walls, approval, commentary.

The guests conversed animatedly. The servants carried silver trays with champagne. A side table near a wall in the foyer was overburdened with a large bouquet of Protea, magenta Orchids, platinum leaves of Eucalyptus, quaint sticks and twigs with moss. All this was from an ambitious florist no doubt wanting to maintain his business with this all-important client, a woman who entertained friends of the governor of California, no less. And, seated with Marcus was his wife.

Marcus and the woman continued to go unnoticed. Their gaze once locked now wandered. Monika let Marcus’ hands, encapsulated within her own, as it was briefly, finally fall to her golden lap. They faced each other once again, after his troubled thoughts had wandered and returned.

“You are in this now. Even with the little I told you, I have said too much. Perhaps it was a mistake telling you like this.” -said Monika.

And then she continued, somewhat as though scolding a stubborn child, “ You have no idea how much you mother did to get you this surgery.” Her eyes went to Marcus’ lap where his hands now rested.

At first she stopped herself, from saying what she intended to, but then she continued –

“Things don’t just automatically come together for that kind of procedure. It takes powerful people to make that happen. This is experimental to say the least. This accident is, if anything, another reason for you to accept the Senate seat. Where would you be now without the influence of you family? Besides, It is not often an opportunity like this comes along. If you want any kind of a life, first, you need power. It’s how one survives. ” She looked to his face again with this, searching for a specific response. Resolve? Commitment?

“Your secret is that you are a monster put together from parts taken from another’s tragedy. In politics, your secrets can make you an attractive investment. Everything boils down to a transaction. What’s unflattering must be kept hidden. An exchange can be made…” -she let this sink in. But, his expression was unwavering, newly hardened. “My husband can make your appointment happen. A sitting Senator has been appointed Secretary of State. And, someone must be appointed to finish out his term. The Governor can make that happen.” -and her face assumed an expression that was strangely, blasé. There was no other word for it. “The donor has been handsomely rewarded with the one thing that matters most in California, real estate. Land is everything, even in this day-and-age. Funny, what technology has failed to replace.” His gaze lowered with that.

It had never occurred to Marcus that politics played a part in his surgery, but, apparently it did. And is father’s dithering as well? The truth is, research can pay off, but never in the way one’s expects it to.

There were the people who could make things happen, and, then, there were all the rest. It was a stark realization for Marcus.

“Your contribution to the De Young was quite generous as well as thoughtful. It is a shame you couldn’t have been there. It would have been wonderful to meet you sooner.” -She said before getting up from the settee. And so began his career in politics.

]]>*** Chapter 6: Playing at Life ***http://jameslegare.com/playing-at-life/
Tue, 20 Nov 2018 03:52:33 +0000http://jameslegare.com/?p=1131Indeed, Marcus could not remember ever playing Rachmaninoff so…perfectly. Eerily, his mother would remark that it was like listening to another pianist entirely. Begrudgingly, he would have to agree. It were as though someone else were playing. And, now, there seemed to always be the attendant…sensation. There was no other way to describe it. Could one play the piano with someone else’s hands?

There was the unexplained small nub behind his left ear, still somewhat painful, and, really it would always be so from now on. It appeared strangely after the accident. And, he remembered seeing the scar as he touched it again, once, in a mirror, entirely by accident while brushing his hair one morning soon after the accident. As Marcus touched it again, there was a pulse of pain above the normal level. And then there were the circular scars around both wrists where the hands had been attached. They were human flesh to be sure, but not really his own.

It seemed at times he would recall memories that were not entirely his own, of a life he never lived. There were sensations, scents, and light. -more impressions than recollections. It was like a protuberance not belonging to his own life, or, to himself.

There had been the sensation of utter weightlessness, of being pulled to the sky almost. Then, there had been the dispersal of one’s very being, of being co-joined with utter calmness, and then profound silence. But, a silence like no other. It was more like music: the sheer delight of being. A filling silence filled him. And then he realized there was a presence. But, the…, for Marcus, the sensation would abruptly end, as though there were a change in circuitry.

There Marcus was, in his mother’s home -architectural Cubism, with light being the all-important element. One can imagine a cloud in the hills and then set out to design on as this architect had been inspired to do. -thought Marcus every time he visited his mother’s home. This would be, however, a cubist cloud: squares in lieu of cumulus curves. A lightness of cubes, rather, rectangles, boxes, elongated subtly, and, the lightness. And, light itself, through the glass penetrated the living space, and, by consequence, one’s thoughts. One could say a building could have a soul.

“It seems that not only have you recovered the sensation in your hands, but, that your playing is better than it has ever been.” -said his mother’s doting plastic surgeon. As it would turn out, his ambitions far exceeded that one specialty.

“I’ve heard Rachmaninoff like that before, but, not from you Marcus, forgive me for saying.” a wan smile erupted on his mother’s lips with this revelation. She set the tea cup back onto the table before her, not far from the piano, in front of which Marcus still sat, folded music being set aside.

The music was haunting, but now, also, in another sense.

The previous piano session hadn’t gone so well. This time, with his mother and her plastic surgeon present, had been astounding. The doctor’s name was Dr. Chabrinsky, a somewhat doddering man, middle aged, perpetually wearing a suit and tie, with a paunch his suit failed to hide.

It had been difficult for Marcus to get used to his ‘new’ hands as the doctor was want to call them now.

‘It will be a little disorienting at first, Marcus.’ – he recalled those words during a moment of frustration.

Marcus had fumbled through a Mazurka, Chopin. Disorienting was the sensation. The resulting music, somewhat confusing to the listener, disjointed. The elements all intact but all-a-jumble. He had sailed through the Mazurka just previous to the accident. His mother had delighted in it, in fact. Although, as they say, it wasn’t Rachmaninoff. Only winning is good enough for Mommy.

Marcus had raised his hands to his face in despair, almost with revulsion in fact. Then Dr. Chabrinsky said:

“It will take awhile but we’ll get their, Marcus.”

And, then Marcus reached out towards the keys of the piano again, the black and white of infinity, he was struck with the sensation of playing towering Rachmaninoff chords, then, giddily realized he was the one doing it. A storm of notes filled the house. It was breathtaking. It was a loud piano, and, Marcus played it loudly. And, the airy house filled with music. Daphne had nearly dropped her tea cup, an heirloom, in surprise. It would have been another tragedy. Broken antiques are never a pleasure.

Marcus ran his hands over the keys, up and down the register. The baby grand piano, stately and black in the middle of the living room, emitted a concordance of Rachmaninoff-brilliance from the beginning of the piece to its end.

When the final chord was played, and resounded, both audience members clapped loudly, their surprise almost as great as that of the performer, Marcus. Dr. Chabrinsky turned to Daphne to read her expression, monitoring the approval or lack thereof. More than anything else, it was an unconscious gesture on his part. He was relieved to find her faced filled with delight as she continued applauding long after he had stopped.

]]>*** Chapter 5 -Crystal Tidbit ***http://jameslegare.com/crystal-tidbit/
Sat, 20 Oct 2018 03:46:40 +0000http://jameslegare.com/?p=1127Crystal usually spends most of her time exchanging tidbits with the potential clients over home-made cookies in the kitchen. Subtly, the feature of arguably the most important room in the house would be shown off. The potential-client’s responses would be monitored adeptly, and finally, a natural procession to the other rooms of the house would be made. All would unfold as it has for the nearly ten years now that Crystal had been “selling.” And we all do something well. At least one thing, as Crystal was apt to say on occasion.

If there were good lighting, as there always seemed to be in Mill Valley, that fact would be mentioned. Casually, as one would address a confidant, she would ask if the person was a neighbor or, searching on behalf of a friend considering a move into the area for a job or such. “Are you working with an agent?” “Where they searching for something specific? Any must-haves?”

…and then her eyes would twinkle in anticipation. Never would this experience grow stale for her.

Parallelograms of light on the hard wood floors, originating from the windows on all sides -a quite home centered in a preternaturally quiet town. The omniscient hue of green grass lent the light the subtle magic of a forest. Staged, as the home was, with furniture from mid-century-modern, the décor seemed to reinforce the feeling of out-of-time-ness. It may have been the early 21st century, but, no-one knew that here.

A stillness ensued between Crystal’s attaching the last pink balloon out front and the arrival of the first would-be client.

How much of life boils down to a mere transaction? -thought Crystal as she appraised the curb appeal of the Mill Valley bungalow, wrap around porch with hardy plank siding, Denver Green was the color -she could tell that now.

The Vanilla Soy candles would be arranged in a careful semi-circle on the coffee table. The disclosure statements would be neatly stacked on the rectangular dining-room table, by the cylindrical glass vase filled with star-gazer lilies. A Summer breeze was sure to waft the scents, especially with the opening and closing of the doors -front and back. Shall she heap selling points upon all the others?

Open houses in Mill Valley were all but redundant for all but attracting new clients. There was one last gaze towards the picket fence with its balloon -no breeze to speak of, as she waited in a manner similar to that of a spider -in its lair -and as softly, in the living room. The street view was charming, but, not busy. Then, he walked by, paused, as he took in the front of the house, and then walked up the front walk-way -a series of stones, up the wooden stairs, and to the front door. And, predictably, it opened.

Crystal, already, had forced herself to forget what had obviously been bloodstains in the storage room upstairs. She was an expert on the varying levels of cleanliness left behind by previous owners. Despite the ready sale-ability, due to the location, the previous owners, two very strange men, thought Crystal, had obviously been keen on removing all traces of the stains. The locations and size of the stains suggested violence. This, she realized, even without the use of her sixth sense; her ability to see beyond the present moment. She had her own private and powerful view of the past. It would haunt her always, and not just because of what she had seen in the storage room, windowless, and, presently, without furniture.

Later that day, Crystal’s thoughts would fall back to that first would-be client, by the looks of it, an Iraq-war veteran. He had no hands, or, more correctly, prosthetic metal hands. Although she was impressed by how well they worked, and how well he worked with them, despite herself, she found herself helping him with simple tasks such as opening doors and cupboards. ‘Larry’ -was his name.
And, he was unassuming, and, otherwise, unremarkable. Crystal had a capacity for remembering small details as well.

Despite the unusually warm morning in Mill Valley, Larry had worn a long-sleeve plaid shirt, perhaps to hide where the prosthetics joined the remainder of his fore-arms. Where one began and the other ended Crystal never could discern despite the stolen glances taken whenever the opportunity presented itself. Larry tended to look into Crystal’s eyes when not casually inspecting the house.

With some disappointment, the briefest conversation with Larry revealed how weak his finances were. Apparently he had a wife, although she would not be present for some vague reason that even Crystal seemed to have forgotten. It had something to do with working overtime as a school teacher for a school play or some such thing. Larry was between jobs.

The loan application would take some creativity. But, everyone understood that the days of buying a home you could actually afford in Northern California were long gone. It would be best to keep certain facts under wraps and present the best of their combined incomes from the previous year. Still current enough for the bank, it was a matter of not mentioning facts. This would be the most reliable form of lie.

The changing market required changing methods -she would muse while locking the door to the back deck after the open-house had ended and the last client had left. Crystal had things down to a checklist at this point. This would be a Mill Valley sale with the attendant size in commission.

]]>*** Chapter 3+4: An Unfortunate Accident of Fate ***http://jameslegare.com/an-unfortunate-accident-of-fate/
Wed, 05 Sep 2018 03:00:45 +0000http://jameslegare.com/?p=1125It was the crisis-mode of self preservation. But, what ever fight-or-flight there would have been was already long gone, down the length of the State Road, or, in the case of the car Marcus actually collided with, a burning husk by the side of the road, spun into an unlikely angle. Needless to say the other driver was dead, well beyond dead, really, occupying the wreckage at the base of a ball of flame. The human figure still recognizable as such, making it all the more macabre.

The California hills were tree-less. The sun now burnished all -and all too late. The splintered shards of safety glass cast over the surface of the road mocked the glint of stars, long invisible. Daylight blazed on. It was now all revealed in glaring sunlight.

The memory of Angel now long gone. Marcus had been traveling alone in his car, trying to make time. And he had been going all too fast for that narrow county road. Marcus’ and the other card had collided with sudden violence.

There was the growing realization that he must have been hurled upon the road from his car, through the windshield, no doubt, as evidenced by the splintered glass, which crunched mutely with the slight movements he managed torso-wise, before surrendering again to an all-encompassing gravity. Blood drenched his shirt. He tried and failed to take a thorough stock of his injuries, other than one horrible fact he slowly came to realize. There was a barely audible grunt that no one would hear, not even Marcus. It would be hours before he was discovered on this infrequently traveled county road. And the asphalt baked like a second, black sun.

The deadly fog had evaporated quickly, after the accident, as it turned out. His hands had been crushed. This was a horrible fact. The realization came as a horrific flood over his body; the sensations did his thinking for him. His hands had been crushed. It was an impossibly grizzly image to comprehend in his condition -his hands crushed into the asphalt and pummeled by the wheels of what it would be come to be known as the delivery truck -the third vehicle involved in -the accident.

Stunned by shock, he was in an animalistic state of mind -a place of steely survival as his body hardened in agony, arms outstretched above his head like a once-perfect but now shattered statue. Hurled from what temple would he be, from the stratosphere perhaps? Once beautiful, now pulverized; was the sensation. It was all that remained after the ability of coherent thought vanished even more thoroughly than the fog. His former life would become but a beguiling memory, or worse, a trick of his own mind.

It would be commented on later how the tire marks left a swervy kind-of ‘S’ on the asphalt. Apparently the truck driver had tried to, at least, slow down, and, failing that, turned to avoid hitting Marcus. The driver had tried valiantly, given his speed, and, almost missed entirely Marcus’ prone body. One must be grateful to walk away with one’s life, at least. Is it the same life? – he would come to wonder.

Marcus, driving the nearly deserted state road in his red Lamborghini, suddenly found himself in the blinding whiteness of fog, seemingly from nowhere. It was an instant wall of white. While trying to intuit how to steer to remain on his side of the road, while slowing down, he saw the orange lights of an oncoming car headed straight at him all too late. And, as it would be noted afterwards, there were not just two, but three vehicles involved in the accident. There was one collision in the thickness of the fog, and then the truck some minutes later as the whiteness dissipated and then revealed the scene of the accident.

Although, Marcus would not be aware of the truck, face to the asphalt, surrounded by splintered safety glass, the red Lamborghini in the roadside ditch, the black sedan not too far along the road behind him with a battered front-end and a non-surviving passenger at the wheel, deflated airbag along his lap, with orange flames still trailing well into the sky.

*** Chapter 4: A vision that is not realized ***

As though tossed from the stratosphere Marcus remained perfectly motionless in shock from the hallucinations as much as from the physical shock of the crash itself. He thought back to his times practicing the piano at his mother’s home in the California hills. It was the Cubist home of light. The sensation that he could not dislodge was that his father was watching, not here beside the road, but, while he played the stately glossy-black piano. How often during his life he thought his father was watching over his shoulder as he played, only to find, upon glancing to the side after the ending of his performance, that his father was not there. He was not present. And, that it had simply been an illusion all along. This never failed to disappoint him.

And Marcus’ father would work long hours as the chairperson for the floundering Bio-tech company, from finance to science, the hours simply never ended for his father. The value of the stock tumbled in just one direction over the many years. Sound science does not always make a firm investment.

The problem was, how to monetize the cure to an illness that would never be acknowledged.
Scientifically respected research and costly clinical studies did not yield a recognizable product.
The Alpha Wave project – a DNA-related treatment that boosted awareness in its subjects would prove to be more suitable for military applications than medicine, as it turned out. But even selling to the military would prove a daunting task. An overdose of the newly discovered waves would cause psychosis in those unfortunate enough to be exposed to that extreme level of Gamma waves. An ironic turn of events, it would turn out to be, for someone ostensibly laboring for peace, as was his father.

Marcus considered that the last sensation he may feel before death would be this same ghostly illusion of his father’s watchful gaze. The feeling of a presence that simply wasn’t there proved more frightening than the considerable physical pain.

]]>*** Chapter 2 *** Interlude with Eroshttp://jameslegare.com/interlude-with-eros/
Sun, 05 Aug 2018 03:00:43 +0000http://jameslegare.com/?p=1123Meeting up with Angel always seemed like Breaking-and-Entering. Although, Angel always left the back door leading to the kitchen unlocked, as they had discussed. Hurrying through the small courtyard and hearing the inevitable neighbor’s barking dog gave it all the air of criminality, at least in Marcus’ mind. The small, private courtyard itself was a rare luxury for a modest East-Bay town-house in this seemingly perpetually-overheated real estate market. Despite the unending droughts of California, the grass was a luxurious green and carpeted the modest yard, while drinking in the shadows under the protection of the tree’s extended, leafy branches. The tree had an almost maternal reach.

There was an arbor with a wandering grape vine, which struck Marcus as being just so reminiscent of Napa. The dappled sunlight along the stone path leading to the kitchen door, cast shadows from the tree’s generous branches, and a neglected bird bath, dry and forgotten in the corner, gave the place the air of bucolic neglect, benign and quiet all but for that barking dog. It was always the same.

Blocked-off on three sides by wooden fences, haphazard and crooked, as they were, the narrow passage between the side of Angel’s house and the neighbors’ was the only way to gain entry into the back from the sidewalk out front. He would begin discreetly from the street.

When he finally found himself in the back yard of the house, Marcus was always careful to step exclusively on the somewhat randomly placed flagstones which led to the back-door, making their gentle arc in the back, along the grass. And its oddly, battle-ship-gray painted stairs -three to be exact, began just as the random stepping stones ended. There would always seem to be hidden prying eyes. One could never be too careful. And, he always felt watched.

Marcus never grew accustomed to the secrecy. And these encounters were always timed to the minute, with Angel’s wife leaving for work promptly and quite predictably. Sitting in his car parked several blocks away, while waiting for someone to leave, was something Marcus never grew accustomed to.

As it turned out, Angel was not a man too troubled by the truth, or being truthful, which seemed to be the same thing. Instead, he was ever mindful of potential possibilities and ready propositions. And, one would have to be like that in the suburbs of Walnut Creek. This was the non-place of suburbia. It was all bland and blankness, simply drenched in sunlight.

It’s good to know what you want and not suffer misplaced sentimentality. Even if you are not a free man, break free. Freedom is for those who take it. And breath. One must adapt.

The last sounds of Angel’s shower could be heard even as Marcus made his way from the narrow side-yard into the back courtyard and up the three wooden steps. With care, and studied slowness, he opened the door, which of course, gave way, after a slight push with the shoulder, stuck as it always was, and creaking its admonition. It always struck Marcus as odd that such a tidy townhouse would have such a shabby door.

Marcus made it through to the kitchen, and then down the narrow hall towards the bedroom, all the while carefully ignoring the various family photos; weddings, camping trips, and birthdays, -framed, and sometimes hung on the walls, all set out with pride. He would find Angel, there on the bed, with the bedroom door swung wide open. Angel’s face was pressed down into a pillow, silk, like a crushed flower, and had his hands underneath the pillow. And this is how Marcus would see him at first, this time and most of the times.

Apparently, all was done with in the shower. How rapidly we learn to do things. And now with blankets cast to the floor, with the last of a few water droplets from the shower rolling off his nude body, and the dewy sheen of cleanliness, Angel waited with wordless anticipation while facing the headboard, an angelic expression on his face. He had always offered himself quite frankly, with that pose he had become accustomed to -it finally occurred to Marcus, at that moment before the threshold. This was his moment to step out of the hall and into the bedroom. This would be, although Marcus did not know it at the time, for the last time. Fate would tell a different story than what would have been expected. Our lives are re-written with every passing moment.

Perhaps there would be a glance backward from Angel, of recognition and expectation, as Marcus entered the room. Or, as the bed finally yielded to the weight of Marcus’ body, the formality of a familiar verbal exchange would have been expected, ordinarily. But, it was not necessary to exchange words -a worn currency, these words. They lie, like so many rocks on the beach. Words become but an encumbrance. This, there’s, had become something beyond language, without words, those scoundrels.

The moments, such as these, do not return to be enjoyed a second time. Drink all the pleasure you can once it is offered. The passage of time falls like the sand through one’s fingers. We cannot grasp it at the moment. Steal the moments while they are at hand. And the water droplets, the final ones, were wiped clean from his body.

The black limo edged towards the Golden Gate Bridge heading South as it approached from Marin. Daphne caught a glimpse of her thoroughly cosmetized face and assessed her newest face-lift, with a slight upward tilt of the chin, as her image was reflected in the car’s window. It was the result of an unlikely balance of light -just at that moment. With eyelids Turquoise, and short blond hair coiffed with careful proportion, like Narcissus gazing into the water, her face appeared suddenly before her own eyes. But, there would be no hypnotic effect, not this time. Narcissus’ drugged stupor is experienced only by the truly beautiful.

This subtle trick of the sun’s rays, the ghostly image of her own face, caused her to appear as though Daphne were in her thirties again, a fleeting illusion. It was as though her heart slowly drained as she once again gazed at the scrabble dirt and knotty grass beside the road which measured her meager progress. They are starved for water -she thought. This would be Route 101’s final approach along a stretch that was frequently congested with traffic. The limo’s position in relation to the sun shifted gradually, and subtly.

The cell phone, resting by her sequined clutch-purse, near-at-hand, rang softly, breaking the near-silence. She held it to her ear after a moment’s consideration, after she saw the number appear on the caller ID. After listening, without a hint of emotion -never that, she began speaking calmly yet with an earnestness that was all her own, a trade-mark of sorts.

“Now just remember Darling; there is High Society and then there is Very High Society. Now, I’m not saying you haven’t arrived…”
Then after pausing thoughtfully…
“…You just need to learn the etiquette, you naughty young man you…”

Then, after listening for awhile…

“You have to give generously when people are watching Marcus.” then, after another glance, out at their meager progress…again “I’ll make a Senator out of you yet…a son for a Senator..Now, that’s what Mommy wants.”
-a prideful smile appeared…then…she though -What is the difference between romance and infatuation? Never mind. Let someone young figure it out.

Daphne continued with the phone by her ear. -“Regardless, Power is mostly an illusion. The challenge is to be disciplined. You have to be even more disciplined then the people you govern.”

“Now Dear, you had your beginnings as a motivational speaker. That was a step above carnival barker as far as Mommy is concerned. But, we are all young and foolish once. In your heart you will always be a musician. But, you were not the first, nor will you be the last pianist to crash ashore Rachmaninoff. That rocky coastline has destroyed more dreams. Darling, you just don’t have it in you. The Muse will kill you if you let it. Perfection is difficult to achieve. It evades us, after all. Sadly it is the destiny of Beauty to fade. That’s what makes it beautiful, after all.”

One would not have been able to read the thoughts on her face. The most delicate language can obscure the coarsest of ideas. The one clue would always be her actions. Other than that, one was lost as to her intentions. To guess at a businessperson’s true goals, one must observe what they do, first and foremost. Words, more often than not, are mere camouflage.

“…snake oil salesman. That’s not how it’s done, now.”

Visualize success and what it means. As the image becomes more clear, also, it will become more real.
Real and realize -She closed her Turquoise eyes and thought those words over again.

“Your emotional intelligence workshops were a scam… retreats, -whatever. You need a business model that works, not New Age claptrap. Enlightenment isn’t a commodity. It doesn’t interest Mommy.”

“Your pièce de résistance is much anticipated even as we speak. Is it prudent of you to NOT be present at its unveiling? Mommy’s on her way now, even as we speak.”

“You never want to miss out on an opportunity to schmooze, especially with this crowd. Take that advice from Mommy. The governor and his wife aren’t going to stand around at the unveiling ceremony and wait for your arrival, forever. You aren’t that important yet.”

“Who is he? That’s what I want to know, to inspire this latest bit of scandal. He must be gorgeous! Your letting a trick interfere with your political advancement?”

There was a hoarse, dry laugh at that. Her gaze returned to the slow progression of the roadside, parched, brown, with the spectacular San Francisco Bay, tantalizingly, appearing, in the background. Life was truly a mirage.

“The governor and his wife do not ‘hang out’ at the museum for just any schlump. Charming as I am, Mommy may have trouble keeping them on her little hook for you. I will try to entertain them in your absence. I will tell them you are at death’s door. It’s the only excuse they will understand. But then, I need you to miraculously appear, my dirty little darling. Returning from the dead is the one thing that just may impress this man.“

“Politics is all about names, and, the names of the ‘Right People’. Yes, you should bother with their names. It is almost as important as dressing well.”

“You can’t just walk away from it. That is the difference between people who have, and those who are governed by those who have…”

“As the altitudes become more rarefied your second chances diminish in direct proportion to your distance from the Earth. Listen to Mommy. Someday you will reach the stratosphere. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

“I happen to know that the governor’s wife can play men like a fine violin. But, only if they’re straight. So, perhaps this little warning is irrelevant.”

“Some people only vote with money, But, others vote mainly with money. Take it from Mommy. ”

“Trust me, the worst thing you could be is genuine. That would be a grave offense. And, grave offenses are not forgiven.” And the conversation seemed to end with that. And, it was not with an air of satisfaction.

Daphne placed the phone, once again, on the leather seat beside her. A calmness ensued. Her gaze was now zen-like. From the interior of the car, it seemed, progress picked up, slowly and silently, or at least its illusion.

And then, Daphne turned again, to the window, to the glass that so betrayed her. This would be rush-hour during an intensifying sunset. It would have to be at this hour, unfortunately. The governor’s schedule had to be worked around, not the other way around. The outline of San Francisco, her skyline, drew nearer, this would be all that the glare would allow, through the glass, on this occasion, one of many journeys to The City.

This would not be the first sexual tryst to interfere with her son’s political advancement. To be gay in San Francisco was hardly scandalous in this day-and-age. However, it can prove distracting.

Daphne’s late husband had been a colossal failure. With a dithering habitude, he was a feckless man at every turn. An executive who labored long hours in the Bio-Tech Sector. He did badly even after considering how challenging that industry was. How disappointing.

The driver continued his steady if meager progress towards the bridge. The span was magnificent to behold. Daphne’s thoughts were elsewhere, however.

Fog began its rapid encroachment. Whiteness surrounded the towers once again. Daphne resigned herself to meeting the Governor and his wife at the charity gala at the De Young without Marcus. And, as she was growing accustomed to appearing without her now-late husband, she could entertain them both without the usual distractions.

Sculpture De Young SF CA
]]>Just Another Trickhttp://jameslegare.com/just-another-trick/
Fri, 08 Jun 2018 04:47:40 +0000http://jameslegare.com/?p=1283Foolproof Potion for Love
Mint Leaves upon the tongue
Orange Zest for the bottom of the glass
Peel away the inhibitions
Work that spell
Stirring-stick into Concoction

Townhouse adjacent to the beach
terrace between house and sand
French doors frame each and every
sunset

to the West
The sound of waves
sultry in their slumber
He finally stirred
from the silk sheets

Lichen, green and umber
unopened letter
Moss upon the battlefield
Strong horses running forward
The night of my being within
Starry haze my last
past the ferns and bark
often freely, tree and forest
Gasp of an evening, park

stillness in my heart
various tools of the trade with
brush resolute
resolve in hand
work straight ahead
and leaning to the side
full frontal was the model
live, for drawing, succumb
to the goddess of Art

Coffee
Park and Avenue
store fronts and
twittering amonst the branches
an image of trees reflected
in glass
behind the windows
eyes like jewels

would never notice
homeless man lies
on park bench
while woman young
jubilant walks by
satisfied. Merely
an image
eyes drunk with candy

7.

Whitest orb of a moon
to reappear that same,
self-same,
evening, above skyline
above it all
darkness
swelling with
heartfelt sorrows
a stillness now
in the streets
compromiso – promesa
el corazón del cielo

8.
another day in the daily
diary grind cada día its due
everyday-wear for a morning
madrugada
finally, it arrive
the brandishing SUN
just over the Statue of Liberty
Ma Liberté
swaddle me with your
metal robe
the only woman
this man
shall ever desire
la femme

10.
Liberty guards The City with
a torch, brandished boldly whilst
vendors, recklessly, moldering
Salpicando -han hecho -within
Pimiento and small change
caliente entre las manos
Good Stuff in Life
while
the man on the bench
emerges
Gold-ness of Sun
warming and fortunate
another Wintering day
Escarcha
Frio
Cement

11.
Skiddy the Pool Guy
newly clothed
left studio behind
frontal nudity required
and back firm again
to return
another day
to be paid in full
resolve still
steadfastly
easy-going
a model at heart
specimen of a man
to be just like you
teach me you can
magnificence, musculature
well batten legs
now carry me
the thresh-hold of
a building
leaves of trees
leaving
soundlessly in the Winter
Wind.

A Jacket blows
far and distant from
the naked moments
above it all

12.
Los Músicos

Stanly gets it
saxophone player
streetwise, street smart Stanly
Jazz Artiste
fronts the windows
carries his reflection
up in lights
music abounds
Avenue, Park, Stanly
and a man on a park bench
bristling sunshine
warms the coffee
in hand for the man
play my heart
Red Robed Monk
Thelonious, gold like the Sun
his Saxohpone
screaming hysteria

Could the Forget-Me-Nots be blue enough? The Ocean’s shores crash with violence. A garden near the beach; how exquisitely I hear. Dry, and yet it surrounds. As a comforting friend. An ocean, nearly, and Blue. We are almost on the beach, yonder. A rock wall separates us, the ocean and I. Be still my friend of Gaia.

A lumbering wall, scant trees, a quagmire. The garden, my home. Our place in space, we tend with tendress. With doting efforts, the servants do. And I look on, with my countenance of stately approval, and from such a young prince as I.

Shall I count the hues of Blue proffered by the sky? Drink of a deeper intensity. Then, return to ask me why. Do not forget me, not. Drink of knowledge if not wisdom. Question the patterns of the cosmos. Why so many stars at night, I wonder. Shall I instigate? The Iron garden-gate. Grating in its opening.

Allow each stone in our path to be stepped upon – it is decreed. And the roses in the garden nod their approval with each and every passing breeze. Bronze the sunset and illuminate the stars. Stunningly sets the day. My planet, Mars, hastily makes his journey with my approval.

Moss lingers, malingering-ly, sabotaging the Rhododendrons, quietly like a cat with paws upon the grass. My dying light. Linger softly as a cloud passes with finality. Daylight remains, but not my furrowed brow with freckles. Feckless. I attend my duties, royalty or not. Do not forget. The ocean is Blue.

With brutish whispers, a passing soul from this world. Silence, be damned! It is my black cat, Taboo!

Each departure is silent enough, with the depth and breadth of the ocean beneath the stars. Taboo walks upon the stones. Carry me yonder, starry sky as I behold thee. Scratch the frost, Taboo. Like the distance between the Galaxies.

The heavens await. To leave is to arrive.

A Monarch flutters to the other end of a rainbow. Further than the Manotaur? I’ll wait for you here, my passing fancy, my lion sulking with grandeur. A skulking conch shell. A slowly burning tea-light candle. A white moth, lost. Sleep soundly my soul of a dream. As the hummingbird tilts towards and I look askance. The sensible meanders.

Look hinder. A day unfurls its unsettled light. With scuttled gold begins the day anew. Blue passes above. Its arrival complete, we settle for what is profound, un proffered, hidden, and still.

A World of Subtle Distinctions.

A Manotaur, beast of burden, carries a chariot of stars. The lessons of the cosmos unfold. A void must be filled. He is beholden to his charge.

My tutor arrives. Her name is Lilly Pond. No stranger to the Court, is she. And we sit beneath the sun at a bistro table in the garden. I, beneath the shadow of an umbrella, she with a satchel of papers. Scowl, with the intended effect, as I do.

Shall I write about a cat barely playing the piano while wondering why it is not a mouse? Shall I speculate about the Jasmine? Does it clamber all the way to the end of the wall? If the stone castle reached one of the passing clouds would it tear its misty body to pieces? Things quiet, all of them. And the silence pervades. No one dares make a sound while I am taking my lessons. The silence conquers all but the ocean; the one plaintive thing. Demonstrating eternity. Blue friend of mine, eternally. Caress my kingdom, my black horse.

For some lessons, Lily said, adjusting her glasses, one must cling like the ivy, for other, one must wander like the cloud. “To be torn?” -I ask her. Yes. You are a prince, however, in some ways a pauper. To govern, one must be wise.

Hear me still, he says, the Snark-a-glaupholous – for your lessons will. End some day, with…the days, numbered as they are, ending. All calendars run dry, given time, will, they do.

At this I was terrified. The cosmos ending, but how?

-3-
To govern is to maintain a delicate balance; just as with a mobile hung from the ceiling. At this, the prince glanced upward towards the mobile of origami paper-cranes on their delicate strings and sticks; such tranquility -thought the prince. “Is it possible for nothing to exist? Or, is it just an idea?” -a flash of inspiration from nowhere.

-4-
The Universe, which changes by its being observed…Cool Cat!

It is all just too much!

The Uncertainty Principle, and it’s Black Cat, which is also White, dictates the music the Cat will play, on any given occasion, at any momento, momentito. As the intervals get smaller, It’s all jazz to you.

Do not confuse the Cat with the Observer Effect, its clumsy cousin. Un copain. The keys to the piano reflect the light, the light from a Castle Window. Elegant Pause. Without causality. Just because.

Perfectly chosen notes linger with aimless precision.

A turtle stumbles upon a nicely laid chord. There are hordes of them. A Blue-Jay sings its arpeggiation.

Do not confuse Scat with Cat.

-5-
Unapologetically Phallic and
Giant Purple Timothy-Leary Mushrooms,
magnificent, and hypnotic,
even as they stand
by themselves,
go down
the center of the garden,
as tall as a standing man, as a man stands on his own two feet

Sentinels against, and the antidote, to group-think.

Psycha-Dahlia!

How popular the dishwater thinker,
as candy is thrown to the room,
standing-room only. The orchestra pit.
The herd is directed.
Run with them! Those Lemmings tall, so sure of themselves, shucks!

Where appearances pass as facts.
Growing in carefully cultivated conditions,
on other side of a winding red path, stone-y in its surface, un-yielding in its direction.

And the prince took it.
The path that is.
Gazpacho soup with those mushrooms.
Tinieblas and tantrums. Darkness would descend.

But then, a wizard appeared, just in time.
Jack that Knife!
He scooped out some of that nearby standing mushroom, soft was its flesh, hoarfrost and whorey, and supple in its giving to the touch. The wizened man handed it to the prince.

And he took it.

-6-
The color of Hibiscus Flowers,
Like liquid passion, Red,
the river ran.
Orange Peel and Licorice,
A trans-formative, ginger-laden,
journey,
began.

Self-realization, assured, and overflowing,
a cup-of-plenty,
the Ambrosia of the Mushroom, coursing,
engorged with the fullness of
self-realization.

With codpiece like lead,
an icy resolve, steels him,
stolen were his thoughts,
regarding the demeanor of the wizard, wizened
like the Hags of Shakespeare.
But, without the wisdom, or
the seeing-eye. Surely, I am a prince – thought he with new resolve.
And resolutely, he went.
-7-
Similar to the crash of thunder,
But without lightning,
lacking any such sudden spark.

The shape of an icicle,
but Reveres, Rêve, Rivers, Je rêve,
Vertiginous, tumbling in endlessness,
the Fall of Water, after its
ebbs and flows and eddies, from Above.
To wait
Then Crash
The Falls

As the prince first saw it,
Him, bathing beneath, the shallows, feet firmly upon a rock,
a vast stone of fundament, ankle-deep,
upon the submerged stone, of grace,
standing, erect with fingers, running, shower of cleansing,
head dunked into, Nude, and no earthly belonging, on the rocks, near at-hand.

A wall of water, that tumbling force,
Oblivious, to him,
to all, but to the task. Stranger to Royalty -that force of the Crown.

The prince’s gaze, upward-bound, then
at the next moment, a malingering eternity.
Heaven’s. That tyranny of lightness.

The palms extended over the river, green and
verdant, wild, shaped like the tusks of,
a long forgotten and extinct, Mastodon,
Curves this way, sultry in their lingering,
and that, over the tranquil heights,
green husks of, pressed by the altitudes,
palm trees, iconic.

The heights of mist, of space, and above all,
light. Golden in its splendor. And they
sway gently,
within the ever-present, momentary reflection,
Tropical breeze, caress, and pressing,
Cone.
Volcanic, Cuts its
profile into the sky. At the base of it, an Ocean of eternity. Blue in its waves.

The Blues of Heaven,
and,
presumed dormant,
latent, hot magma buried deep within its hard-core,
the Red Crust of the Goddess!
Dominated, enchanting, and, seemingly,
deserted, its silky velvet thrown to the ground.

all-but-for-himself and this would-be partner, the princely gaze averted already,
a blanching red,
a stranger nude, bathing oblivious, face to the rock wall of
nature, the Mother Island, lost upon The Globe that is Earth,
sketched by Shakespeare, painted my Michelangelo, by
an island, deserted by the world, for all its
civilization, the pretense of it!

Phalaenopsis, white in delicatesse, white beauty, fixed upon the trunks
of the lower trees, árboles
within a stand of vegetation,
drinking-in their beauty,
engorged in tissue thin humility.

Their whiteness mocked the clouds, our flowers,
absent now, the caressing clouds of fancy, curves,
but to gather shortly, amonst,
by all appearances, the only two men left,
upon a planet of mostly ocean,
especially now, they mocked
time itself, and the prince trudged on, boots to the ground, and the scurrying of vegetation.

His ship, by all appearances, the prince’s
a vessel built for
conveyance, our man, mandated the prince, by means of water,
but truly, of transport via light,
the beams of the moon, sails his ship.

The moon’s insanity drove the vessel,
Truly, it was a voyage,
conducted by light,
the crazy gathering of gravity,
weighs heavy, his heart, a princely weight, leaden,
like a rock, hiding its magma,
Its hot, and waiting to explode.

Prince, passes from the ship anchored at the end of,
the serpentine beach, the wet, blond powder,
dried by the Sun, to be submerged again,
leaving footprints for now,
to be found by no-one,
with only the stars to observe,
and the limitless fuel,
of the madness of the moon.

-8-
The Zombie Aqua-man,
from a Galeón,
esclavizado -slave-ship of fortune,
and strife,
now washed ashore.

Only a tattered shirt,
hung, like dirty lace,
to his name,
upon the sinuous lines,
the color of Turmeric,
jostling as he got up to stagger.

The contours of a
Sunset -a fleeting life already.
Hidden , I was, by the
shadows of leafy,
storm-weary trees,
beach-side brush for cover.

And the granules of
Sand and Thyme and
Shore, sultry the
fading glissando upon
the waves, the lesser ones
whispering their discontent,
the great ones roar,
and crash.

Our Deliverance,
He, to never know,
And my presence,
presently, spying.
His gathering the last,
strength of Misery.
This, surely, must be,
the name of that vessel.

Discarded upon the Sea.
Thus far and no
further. Halted progress upon this Island’s shores,
with steamy mists, gathering mysticism,
to make enviously green,
Mach Picchu, Peru.
And thus Falls the water,
with thunderous force.
A gathering darkness of the sky,
the color of Eggplant,
set the mood to the style of,
René Margritte.

And stranger things would I see,
rather than merely
the arrival of this stranger.
But within the foliage of ginger,
beside the Doctor’s French Chateau,
no lean-to for this Ph.D of Philosophy.

-9-
That Desolate Infinity,
not the Ocean, still,
but Time, that thief. How reckless its victims, how
broad its crimes.

Had I spied,
the only other man,
of lesser years,
that man of science,
and rugged endurance,
all three strangers,
them and I.

That man upon the rock.
I would not have known him,
as I gazed through the window of the Chateau,
his lab, and workshop,
where he transformed this recent stranger,
with flasks and instruments,
for what purpose I did not know.

But,
would soon guess,
into a man-sized bug,
Blue, in color, unnatural,
skin like Mercury,
antennae upon his head,
thrice, with human-like eyes,
all-too seeing,
atop,
suspended far above,
from his head, wriggling,
as no human should,
endure.

-10-
Of Quarks, and showers
Counter-intuitively,
the Uni-directionality,
of our Temporality,
wrapped in an enigma
not unlike our
new-found bug,
Aqua, a man.

Time,
fleeting elsewhere,
trapped in the Umber
color
of Amber,
a fossil of
an Island, analyzed
by who would turn out to be,
builder of Time Machine,
Doctor of Philosophy, and
the most qualified,
Traveler via String Theory
ever I spied.

Upon the showers,
of the Island Falls.
Quantum Gravity,
Again, upon the Rock
he was
at that time,
with ankles submerged,
a heavenly body
in his own right.

But now,
I,
undiscovered,
nor discerned,
a discreet Voyeur,
and of princely
sensibilities…

A Matter of Energy,
in any other given context,
work at arm’s length,
Dispassionately.

Very, and variably,
unlike
the labors of our philosphy.

Framework-ed upon the Cocoon of a man,
one-time slave. Unbidden my stranger.
The Doctor keeps a hand in it.
Gears up the works,
so-to-speak.

I spied his doings,
in the lab.
No stable, mind you.
A stately room with appurtenances,
candle-light, and Victorian moldings.
Stone quarried from God-knows what,
planet.

Titanium was the
machine, itself -its purpose,
no doubt, to travel
Time,
to what ends or destinations
an endpoint, this purpose,
in and of itself?